


Solstice

by eloquated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: It's early but plot bunnies are vicious!, M/M, Pagan Festivals, This idea wouldn't leave me alone, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16677295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: On the top floor of the house, Mycroft’s room overlooked the ‘yard’.  Only called such because of the low bushes, dry and crackling at this time of year, that divided it from the fields beyond.  Miles of open, frost bitten grass beyond the firelight. And miles more before he could be back in London.Where he belonged.A quiet moment between the Holmes brothers before the Yule celebration.





	Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> Since it's gotten so cold and snowy here (and all the shops are playing Christmas music, a month early!) I was bitten by a seasonal plot bunny! 
> 
> Yule is a Pagan midwinter celebration. Usually it's celebrated on the solstice to mark the longest night, and the hopeful return of longer, warmer days.

Amid the panes of leaded-lined glass the frost climbed in fairy knots and iced feathers, half obscuring the leaping orange and yellow of the slowly brightening bonfire.  From his perch at the sill, Mycroft could see the three men outside, their night time silhouettes limned by brilliant sparks as they clapped their hands together and tried to work the blood back into their fingers.

Downstairs, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the dull echo that throbbed through the house when the front door opened-- admitting new guests, and adding their merry voices to the Yuletide gathering.  There would be feasting later, and Mycroft’s stomach already ached with the day of fasting; it always did, every year, as he stewed in a house with a thousand tempting smells and the knowledge that he must resist.

Even the Solstice was no excuse to undo all the hard work he’d put into shedding his childhood weight.

On the top floor of the house, Mycroft’s room overlooked the ‘yard’.  Only called such because of the low bushes, dry and crackling at this time of year, that divided it from the fields beyond.  Miles of open, frost bitten grass beyond the firelight. And miles more before he could be back in London.

_ Where he belonged _ .

In the quiet of his dark room, Mycroft gazed down at the stream of arriving guests.  People he’d known all of his life, as close as family.. Or they would be, if he let them.  People who had watched him grow up, and who kissed his cheeks and greeted him with cheerful  _ Merry Meet! _  As if he didn’t want to be anywhere but his parent’s house.

“Blessed be, on this longest night, brother dear!”  Sherlock’s voice had finally settled on an octave since summer, falling to a rich burr that sent a shudder sliding down Mycroft’s spine; even when it was laced with mocking parody of their own traditions.  “Are you trying to scare away Mummy’s guests, hiding up here and glaring through the window like a gargoyle? She said I wasn’t allowed, so I don’t see why you should be!”

In the dark window reflection, Mycroft caught the arch of his own eyebrow, wry and unwillingly bemused by his brother’s grousing.  If there was any reason to come home for the holiday, it had just walked into his room in the smart slacks and shirt their mother had left out for him.  

If he had his way, Mycroft was fairly certain Sherlock would have arrived to dinner in his holiest jeans, just to make a statement.  

“And aren’t you supposed to be outside, helping Spencer and Simon with the fire?  I distinctly remember Mummy mentioning something about  _ all men under twenty. _ ”  He should shoo him outside, but Sherlock chose that moment to close the space between them, soft curls brushing the side of Mycroft’s neck, smelling of soap and reminding him just how tall his brother was getting.  

“I was.”  He countered and curled his arms about his waist.  Sherlock’s fingers were icy cold as they curled beneath the hem of Mycroft’s sweater and worked their way between the buttons of his shirt.  His smirk was delighted at the goose bumps he felt springing up on his skin, even though he couldn’t see them. “But Spencer only wanted to gossip about this years’ Holly King. Dull.  And pointless, when anyone with a brain could tell it’s going to be you.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw radiating up through his temples with the throbbing reminder of his headache.  “Nothing is certain, brother mine. And Laurence has just as much chance as I do. Better, in fact.”

Better, he prayed, to a pantheon he scarcely believed in. The gods and goddesses of his childhood, capricious and wild-- their energies invoked in the sacred spaces that Mycroft had never felt comfortable.  

“Mummy wants it to be you.  She’s all puffed up and proud, because you’re so young.”  

“And so unwilling to come to Sussex every bloody month until Litha.” 

With a sigh that wasn’t quite resigned to that fate, Mycroft let himself be drawn back against his brother’s chest, the steady thud of his heart reverberating between his shoulder blades.  Slow fingers were warming against his skin, long and slender, and Mycroft didn’t need to look down to feel the way they tugged his buttons free of their mooring. “Lock.. Don’t, dearest. We have to be downstairs soon.”

Predictably, Sherlock chose that moment to pretend that he couldn’t hear him.  Despite the fact that his chin was resting on his brother’s shoulder, both their gazes turned to the window and the fire below.

There would be revelling and celebration, all of them gathered under one roof to celebrate the longest night, and the reminder that the worst of winter had passed.  Fire, to remind them of the eventual spring; even though Mycroft had always struggled to keep that faith. Science told him the days would get longer, but there were still weeks.. Perhaps months, of grey and cold ahead of them.

“Everyone is going to want your attention when we go down.  They’re going to gossip and speculate, and take up all your time.  I want my minutes now, and I’m going to have them.” 

And what could he say to that?  How could he argue when Sherlock’s deft hands were the only thing anchoring him to the real; their shared heat trapped beneath layers of linen and cashmere.  “They might want you for their Holly King, but you’re mine first. I want to make sure you don’t forget that.”

As if he ever could.

Beyond the bedroom door, Mycroft knew people were gathering.  He knew there was food being laid on the long tables, and the children-- the next generation of their coven-- would be gathering around the great, glittering tree in the corner, eyeing the stacks of brightly papered presents.  Just as he and Sherlock had done when they were small.

“I’m staying until after your birthday.”  Mycroft promised as he turned in his brother’s arms, and drew them both away from the window.

Sherlock smiled slow, his mouth curving up and claiming his brother’s.

Downstairs, people prepared to celebrate the longest night, awaiting the return of the light.  Mycroft’s sunlight had dark hair and a Puckish grin, as he pulled him down onto the neatly made bed.  

“Blessed Yule, brother mine.”


End file.
